


Deep Grave

by Metasin



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Drabble, Gen, season one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-06-05 04:08:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6688567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Metasin/pseuds/Metasin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A lull in the chaos of Hell's Kitchen allows for a bit of breathing room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deep Grave

\- 

His earliest memories were of light, of sunbeams giving a place for dust motes to dance while the gravelly voice of the priest filled summer air with the promises of God. His father would be there, hands clasped and face hidden in shadow as God talked of sinners, of men who did the work of evil, of the devil. And little Matty would be content, trying his hardest not to swing his legs against the hard wooden pew as time languished and stretched like a sun soaked cat in the expanse of the church. He remembers thinking that the stained glass was the most beautiful thing in the world, and that Maria was lucky indeed to be loved by both God and the sky. Everything in Matt’s memory of childhood was spun glass, the dissolving communion wafer, the words drifting through the air, the figure of Christ twisted towards heaven in agony. Everything expect the steady heat of Jack Murdock to his right.

Thinking back, Matt thinks that having the two major influences in his world being boxing and the wrath of God may have done something to his life today. That while Church was clean lines and sharp edges, the world that his father tried so hard to distance him from was all hazy electric lights in back alleys and dirty fights. Matty didn’t know, didn’t know that the Devil haunted his dad and creeped on his heels. But with each stitch pulled through bloody skin and the taste of liquor on his lips, he had the inkling that some shroud was falling from his eyes. That however much his dad loved him, he would have a hell of a lot to say to Saint Peter. But Sundays rolled around and then he could breathe easy, letting the ritual of religion wash over him safe, as God’s words flowed from Father Lantom’s silhouette, splashed against the fiery backdrop of light and glass and air, safe that his father could still bask in the light.

-

“You’re going to get yourself killed with all of these theatrics,” says Father Lantom with a disapproving tone, as his latte cools on the cheap linoleum table between them. The diner bustles around them, the air permeated with the cloying smell of grease and good coffee. Two booths behind them, Matt can hear the creak of plastic as another customer shifts in his seat.  
.  
He reminisces back to when Father Lantom was the voice of God, an untouchable presence on the pulpit towering over his flock, and truthfully he still is, but now that Matt has grown in mind and spirit, he can look the other man in the eye, sort of, and trust in the knowledge that both of them are simply men working for a greater power. All the same, Lantom is still every moral guideline Matt has in the blurred lines of justice that his brand of vigilantism dances and to turn a deaf ear to his warnings is foolhardy.

“Matthew, there’s nothing cute about being a martyr,” the other man sighs, sending an eddy of air into the path of the aromas wafting from the kitchen. 

Hash browns, sweat, and cut tomatoes. And truthfully, Matt knows this, that his work as the devil of Hell’s Kitchen is dangerous, deadly work, and that any day now a villain will wise up and shoot him in the head, but as long as he’s out on the streets and behind the law, he’s doing good and damning the consequences on his soul.

“I know, father, and until the day I die there’s going to always be something for me to do for this city.” Matt stands, plate scraped clean and chipped mug centered on top. “Thanks for the talk Father. I'll keep your advice in mind.” And he will, same as his father’s training will always help him in a fight, Lantom’s words give him a clear conscious and goal.

“Keep yourself safe Matthew” whispers the old man to the now empty seat across from him, at the door Matt smiles. He hears him, he always does.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally going to be a full length case fic, but any plot felt like it was being shoved in.


End file.
